


Conversations Around a Couch

by beanarie



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Drug use mention, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, PTSD, alcohol use, assault mention, heineken is joan's truth serum, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kitty leaves, Sherlock visits Joan to find an apartment in disarray and a friend coming undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> About a month ago, the writers tweeted a picture of Sherlock sitting next to Joan on her couch and my friends and I lost our minds. This is a slightly tweaked version of the fic I posted on tumblr as a work in progress.

Watson maintained radio silence after Kitty's departure. Sherlock chose to follow her lead. Without the person he had intended to become his partner, he could not run straight to his previous partner, giving the impression that he was incapable of functioning on his own.

The stillness of the brownstone prompted the realization that he hadn't lived there alone since he left for rehab. Sobering thought, to coin a phrase. He recorded several cassettes of notes for a monograph about plant cloning. He played his violin. He called Edson to ask after his bees. He visited his bees. His phone did not make a single sound not initiated by him.

Weather reports heralded the approach of a blizzard six days into his new life.

Watson narrowed her eyes. "How did you get here?" she asked. He did his best to stomp his boots out on her doormat discreetly. "Oh, wait. Don't tell me. Pam."

"Pam," he confirmed with a short nod. As he crossed the threshold, he added up the warning signs. The smell of alcohol on her breath. The clutter. The pajamas and bare feet at five-thirty in the evening. "I wanted to see how you were faring in the storm." He kept his voice low, nonjudgmental. She quirked her mouth and returned to the couch. The space next to her had the least detritus to clear. He put the stack of papers on the coffee table next to the arrangement of empty beer cans (four).

Flushing slightly, she loaded the beer cans into her arms and dropped them in the bin. "Kitty's case brought up some things," she said as she took her seat again, and it had to be the alcohol because she had never been this forthcoming without some sort of impetus from him, especially not since his return. "Happens… sometimes. For me it was obviously different. I don't, hopefully I'll never know what it was like for her. But…" She blew out a forceful breath. "That first night, after I woke up, Marchef came toward me, put his hands on my arms…" Her eyes were dry, but the twist in her expression told him it was a struggle. "I didn't know what I was in for at that point. The only things that were abundantly clear, I was tied to a chair in a building occupied by men with guns."

The stifling heat in her apartment caused a line of sweat to form where the collar of his shirt met his neck. Her hand rested on the cushion a few inches from him. His fingers twitched.

"Water?" she said, springing from the couch. Although framed as an offer, she didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t responded.

"It's good that we're revisiting topics once closed," he ventured at her back as she opened a cabinet. "I believe we were neither of us emotionally ready for this discussion in the past, but now…"

She laughed brokenly and turned around, two glasses in her hands. "I'm half drunk, Sherlock."

Quite right. He wouldn't want her to feel ashamed in the future for expressing feelings she would not have if her guard had been up. "Would you like me to go?" 

She paused at the faucet, giving a quiet gasp, and started to cry. Somehow it felt not only safe to approach, but necessary. He took the glasses, placing them on the counter.

"I never wanted you to go," she said.

"I know," he said, unable to regret what he gained in London but regretting nonetheless. "I-" He cleared his throat, pointing toward the night table on the left side of the couch. "I see a box of tissues over there." He considered touching her shoulder. She made her grateful retreat too quickly for him to follow through and he settled for glancing at her arm as she fled to couch. Under the sweater and shirt sleeves, the bruising Gruner had caused should still be visible, mostly yellow with fading purplish-red at the points of impact. 

Accompanied by the sounds of Watson sniffling and blowing her nose, he filled one of the water glasses and cut a slice from the two day old coffee cake on top of the fridge. She lifted her eyes a moment, tossing a wadded up tissue on the floor, as he set the tray in front of her. She silently raised the glass to her lips. He reclaimed his seat. 

"We don't _have_ to talk, if you prefer not to." He clasped his hands together to keep them still. "But I have to say, there are potential benefits to airing things out."

Watson took a long drink of water.


	2. Chapter 2

The cake was half gone and the glass empty before she spoke.

"You know Ty, my ex," she said slowly. "You met him our first week. Maybe second? I don't know." As she frowned, he braced himself for the question of whether or not he'd been spying on her at the time. "Well, he cheated on me twice before we 'mutually' decided to call it quits." 

"He was quite tall," he said, when she let the silence stretch out again. "Had the hair of a politician."

"He did, didn't he?" She smiled quietly to herself. "Ty was always very... ambitious. And I fit in his little photogenic box of a life. For a while, until he found other people who fit in better." She shrugged. "Didn't like my work hours, you know. Made it hard to count on me to be at his arm for all those networking dinner parties." She wiped her nose and threw another tissue on the growing pile. "Anyway we became friends a couple years later, after I ki-" She pressed against closed eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "After I lost my patient, he swooped in to 'take care of everything'. Made him feel good to be there for me, he said. Apparently I have this thing about letting people take but not letting them give. No one feels needed. Or special, I guess. Whatever." 

He watched her bust the rest of the coffee cake down to its constituent particles before she dropped the fork on the plate with a tiny clang. 

"You know what? I started working when I was eleven. I paid my own way as much as I could. I never asked for anything. My parents didn't have to worry about me, nobody ever needs to worry about me."

Somewhat accurate, but not entirely. It was baffling that she could lack insight to such a degree. "Why?" he asked. "Why not ask for things?"

She waved a hand back and forth, irritated, as though it should be obvious. "Gives people too much power over you."

"And how much is just enough?"

She winced. "Forget I said that. It's, you know, it's simpler. Want a job done right, you do it yourself."

"So as a result, your relationships consist of allowing people to take what they can from you, a model which is-" Commonly known as codependency. Understood to be detrimental to one's emotional well-being. "unsustainable in the long term."

She squared her shoulders defensively. "After they move on, I start over." She was uncommonly skilled at that, he had to admit, however, he doubted she emerged as unscathed as she claimed. "But I thought _we_ were different? I wasn't ready for..." She walked back to the kitchen to fuss with the kettle. "You know, when you came back," she said over her shoulder, "it was because you wanted something from me. You wanted my help with Kitty."

He shifted in his seat. His motives hadn't been as mercenary as _that_.

"And I'm glad you did. She's awesome and I never would have met her. Now you're..." She made circles in the air in his direction, " _alone_ and you don't like being alone, so..."

All right, well. He _had_ said that he'd replicated the dynamic of their relationship with Kitty. He had never meant to infer that Watson was some sort of walking blank space, interchangeable with any number of individuals, only valued as a last resort. Over the last few months, he believed he'd proven he did not view her that way, yet his words had left a mark. "That is not the only reason I'm here."

Watson placed two mugs on the counter with shaking hands. "Look, here's the deal. We got to an okay place after you got back, right? I'll reopen my agency and we go on sharing cases sometimes until you take off again."

And they had reached the crux of the issue. He got to his feet and halved the distance between them. "Hold on."

She waved behind her back as she picked out two tea bags. "I can't be your partner again, not because I don't want to or because I don't miss you--I do, okay? It's just-" 

She didn't trust him. 

He watched her hand close around the tea bag, crushing it. "You made me feel like I was nothing," she said. "Sherlock, I love you. But if you think you get two chances to do that..."


	3. Chapter 3

_She is inebriated_ , Sherlock reminded himself, as if that erased the words. No. No, he couldn't continue that train of thought. If he began invalidating things she'd said based on her emotional state, it would undo everything he'd learned today.

Immediately after deciding he had to take her offhand confession at face value, he realized he had no response. Turning on his heel, he headed straight for the toilet. Two minutes was the usual amount of time it took an individual of good health to complete their ablutions. He refused himself sanctuary for any longer than that out of respect to Watson (who loved him).

Watson was still in the kitchen, specifically at the fridge, beer number five at her lips until she saw him, flinched violently, and dumped the beverage in the sink. "Oh my god!"

She threaded a section of hair behind her ear with a watery, self-conscious laugh. "I thought you left."

"Watson, uh." He waved his hand in her general direction to indicate the beer--again, trying not to appear too judgmental. "This is..."

She ducked her head as she tossed the can into the bin with the others and shook herself a bit, not meeting his eyes. "It's just simpler than, like, Ambien or something. Got me through the first couple weeks after..."

After he left for MI6, most likely. "So you're having trouble sleeping."

She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand, sniffing loudly. She exited the kitchen, starting for the archway with her index finger extended. "I am gonna get you a blanket and pillow and stuff for the couch."

"Found some things way in the back of my closet," she called from the bedroom. "I think they might fit you?"

"I'm fine," he replied, rather than point out that much of the city was still sitting down for dinner at this time.

"They're clean, I promise! Apart from a little paint."

She emerged, loaded down with a stack of clothes and bedding, and dropped it all on the floor, frowning around the immediate area. "God, my shit is everywhere," she muttered. Sherlock made an attempt to clear some of the clutter from the coffee table. She shooed him away, leaving him to stand in the middle of the living room with nothing to do with his hands. Twitching from his shoulders to his fingertips, he went into the kitchen, put away the tea and kettle, and started on the dirty dishes.

"You know I don't do this," he heard over the running water, and he knew he'd made the right decision. "Just sometimes I get to a point where I kind of... wanna crawl in a hole for a while. Not let anybody in. Not do anything."

Somehow it brought to mind the time he snorted so much cocaine he didn't sleep for over a fortnight. Even if they ran in opposite directions, they were equally committed to getting distance from their problems.

"I couldn't last year. Rent was due. I needed to take on clients, get a business up and running. Plus Gregson never had just me before. I had to show him I could hack it. Solved three Major Crimes cases in two weeks. Was hoping for five or six by the end of the month, but then Elana March took over her husband's drug cartel." He heard a slight laugh, a brief acknowledgement of relief for a job well-completed. "That took... a lot of energy."

His fault, that she hadn't had time to rest properly and recover. And more than likely, that was why the Gruner case had hit her so hard she hadn't left her home in nearly a week.

"Couch is ready, I guess," she said. This time the words were directed at his back. She was looking at him. "Stop washing my dishes. That's ridiculous, you didn't even eat anything." 

Translation: she had finished baring her throat for him and he no longer needed an excuse to maintain a safe distance while remaining in earshot. He pressed his lips together at her in a weak sort of smile. She responded in kind, slipping into his place at the sink as he headed for the couch and the change of clothes she had offered. She gestured wordlessly at the fridge, conveying that he was welcome to the contents. He nodded to communicate his understanding and picked up the shirt. It was v-neck, in a shade of blue that seemed familiar for some reason. Within a split second he realized what he held in his hands and nearly dropped it as though it had caught flame.

Surgical scrubs.


	4. Chapter 4

The water stopped running. When he turned his head, she was drying her hands on a dish towel. "It's okay. They came from my ex. You remember Chris? Uh, the notion of Chris. Anyway, you remember his name."

"I've not seen these before," he said.

"Storage," she said simply. "When I moved out here I figured I'd need some clothes I could renovate in, so I didn't trash 'em." She eyed him, biting her lip. "Not _too_ much paint, right?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, good. Um. G'night then."

"Good night, Watson."

After she closed the bedroom door behind her, he took stock of the situation. Even if Pam were not busy clearing streets for people who truly needed to get from one place to another, returning home before morning was not an option. Rooting through Watson's case files for something to solve was also off the table. Talking of tables, cleaning the rest of the apartment would involve quite a bit of moving around, which might disturb her rest.

The loud whine of the radiator did not help his thought process in the slightest. "Over-performing relic," Sherlock hissed. Unable to take the unnaturally high temperature any longer, he opened one of the windows a crack and, after some back and forth on the matter, changed into Dr. Santos's scrubs. He had to admit, he _was_ more comfortable, despite a stiff patch here and there. Kudos to Watson.

He stopped in front of the terrarium and tracked Clyde's dilatory progress to his food dish, attempting to devise an experiment that would cause minimal noise and no noticeable damage to Watson's belongings.

The bedroom door slid open. "Watson," he said. She was pale, but not ill as far as he could tell. There was no urgency on her face or in her movements that would indicate an imminent reason to regret imbibing those four and a half drinks.

Her eyes showed equal parts trepidation and resolve. She drifted to the couch, sitting down gingerly with her back pin-straight. Sherlock occupied the chair directly next to the terrarium.

She swallowed. "I am going to tell you something, and I'd rather you not- After I say it I'm going back to bed. I- I'm not opening up a discussion or debate or..."

Nervous now, he tapped out random words in morse code on his knee. "I shall maintain silence from this point on." E-x-p-e-d-i-t-i-o-u-s-l-y

She nodded, entangling her fingers together for something to focus on. "His name was Jem. He was young, probably college-age."

_He was a nice man. He was a dock worker._ Sherlock could hear Watson from eighteen months ago so clearly. She'd lost another patient. The question was when. I-n-s-u-f-f-i-c-i-e-n-t

"Marchef said they were... cousins. That could be why he joined Le Milieu, the family connection. There was some kind of incident the day after they took me. I don't know what; they weren't big on sharing. Jem was shot in the abdomen. I was able to go in and stop the bleeding, some of it." She took in a shaky breath. "He was in shock. He was going to die. I kept telling them to send him to a hospital." She slumped forward, abandoning her perfect posture. "Marchef killed him right in front of me to make sure I knew that would never happen."

He wondered if she had said the story out loud before today, but only very briefly. Anyone debriefing her from MI6 would have focused on what she had learned about the criminal organization, rather than what had happened to her personally. To his recollection, Mycroft had been concerned about her reaction to the exposure of all his lies. He would not have risked alienating her further by pushing for information she had not volunteered. Sherlock had attempted, once, to initiate a dialogue about her experience. At the time, she hadn't been amenable and too many other issues had reached climax, pulling his focus. Then he had left. 

She wouldn't have unburdened herself on a family member, whose distress would've forced her to minimize her own, or one of her friends, who were in fair weather cheerfully baffled about the choices she'd made and in foul downright unsupportive. 

D-i-s-c-o-n-c-e-r-t-i-n-g

Tears fell down her face in an intermittent stream. "The kid was in pain, bleeding out, and I was his only hope. He didn't speak English, but I could tell he was begging me to make everything okay. I- I told him I would." She rocked slightly. "I failed him, just like Gerald, Karen Lloyd..." She pulled at the edge of her sleeve until it reached her fingertips and used it to scrub at her cheek. "These- these _people_ , they put their faith in me, and it's the last thing they ever do."

Of course. Gruner had put the bullet in the chamber with his constant reminders of the loss of agency and threat of violence Watson had suffered under Le Milieu. But it was Kitty, who had trusted Watson and had, to Watson's eyes, looked like she might be irreparably harmed because of it, who had pulled the trigger. He should have seen it.

I-a-m-s-o-r-r-y-W-a-t-s-o-n

Watson's eyes lit on him for a split second before she turned inward again. She awkwardly rose from the couch and drifted back to her room. The door remained open. It was unclear whether that had been a deliberate decision or if she'd simply forgotten.

There was a distinct thump, an emphatically whispered curse, and then, the sobbing started.

Despite the numerous conversations they'd had about respecting boundaries, right now it felt vitally important that Watson understand she was not alone.

Events and Sherlock's own actions had conspired to leave her to heal from a dozen wounds of varying sources on her own for a year. He may not be her partner any more--may never be again--but Kitty had helped teach him that one had a responsibility to those they loved who loved them in return. Watson should know that she did not have to go on like this, keeping her pain to herself, assuming no one in her life was willing or able to share the load.

As he surmised, she was on the floor, huddled in a ball with her back against the bed. The duvet had slipped along with her, puddling around her body. She had her forehead resting on one forearm, her hold tight around her knees, as though she was attempting to take up as little space as possible. 

_You are not small,_ he thought, hurting for her, _You are not nothing._ He chose a spot on the floor a few inches away, bending his frame carefully so as not to bump into her in the process of sitting. He placed his hand between her shoulder blades. Her crying increased in volume for a moment before settling back down. She didn't say a word.

In the morning, he would make breakfast and they would talk about treatment options. Between the two of them and their circle of friends, they would find help for her. For now, he would sit in silence, feeling every hitch in her breath, and hope she was getting ready to admit that she needed it.


End file.
